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REETsppf 



MRS. M. L DICKINSON, 




laiT'EE 




REEMW' 



BY 



MRS. M. L. DICKINSON 



3777'.^ 






H. H. B. ANGELL, PUBLlSHERy^ .^^^, 

354 FOURTH AVENUE, "-^; 1^^^ ^^-*'^ 
NEW YORK. 



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COPYRIGHT; 
H. H. B. ANGELL, NEW YORK CITY, 

1885. 



Th:^ lastar &u3$t. 



T KNEW Thou wert coming, O Lord Divine, 
* I felt in the sunlight a softened shine, 
And a murmur of welcome I thought I heard, 
In the ripple of brooks and the chirp of bird; 
And the bursting buds and the springing grass 
Seemed to be waiting to see Thee pass; 
And the sky, and the sea, and the throbbing sod 
Pulsed and thrilled to the touch of God. 

I knew Thou wert coming, O Love Divine, 
To gather the world's heart up to Thine; 
I knew the bonds of the rock-hewn grave 
Were riven, that living Thy life might save. 
But blind and wayward I could not see 
Thou wert coming to dwell with nie^ e'en me ; 
And my heart o'erburdened with care and sin. 
Had no fair chambers to take Thee in : 



Not one clean spot for Thy foot to tread, 

Not one pure pillow to rest Thy head; 

There was nothing to offer, no bread, no wine, 

No oil of joy in this heart of mine; 

And yet the light of Thy kingly face 

Illumed for Thyself a small dark place, 

And I crept to the spot by Thy smile made sweet, 

And the tears came ready to wash Thy feet. 

Now let me come nearer, O Lord Divine, 
Make in my soul for Thyself a shrine; 
Cleanse, till the desolate place shall be 
Fit for a dwelling, dear Lord, for Thee. 
Rear, if Thou wilt, a throne in my breast, 
Reign, I will worship and serve my guest. 
While Thou art in me — and in Thee I abide — 
No end can come to the Easter-tide. 



^:>'^>^Vt^S:7^^^ 



TbwB Easter Batj* 



'iTHIN thy heart is there an opened tomb ? 
Have God's strong angels rolled the stone 
away ? 
Rises thy dead self from its bonds of clay ? 
Breaks Heaven's sweet light across the dark and 
gloom ? 
Then is this day in truth thine Easter day ! 

If broken down are stony gates of pride, 

If shrouding bands of earth are torn away, 
If sin and wrath and scorn in thee have died, 
Mourn not the past. The folded shroud beside 
Angels will watch; — it is thine Easter day. 



Rise, new-born soul, and put thine armor on; 

Clasp round thy breast the garment of the light; 

Gird up thy loins for battle. In the fight 
He leads who upward from our sight has gone; 

It is His day; there's no more death nor night, 

No dark, no hurt, no more sharp shame nor loss; 

All buried, hidden 'neath the grave's dark sod; 

All ways forgotten, save the road He trod; 
All burdens naught in sight of His — the cross; 

All joy, alive and safe with Christ in God ! 




laster-Tide. 



^^TJIFE for us is in His dying !" 

•^ So our humbled souls keep crying; 
While the Lenten tears fall faster 
At the grave that shrouds the Master, 
Till within that gloomy garden 
Shines His presence and His pardon — 
Glimpse of Easter glory giving — 
Then, " Our life is in His living ! " 

While He, patient, waits the voicing 
Of our triumph and rejoicing; 
Filled with our own hearts' devices, 
Still we bring our burial spices. 
Yet the Love whose taking hallows 
Our poor gifts of myrrh and aloes, 
Rainbows e'en our tears, and raises 
Broken, trembling prayers to praises. 



Watcher where His grave glooms darken, 
Lift thy shadowed soul, and harken ! 
Hear the strong, triumphant singing 
Of the risen Christ, loud ringing 
In glad anthems from the portals 
Of the home of the Immortals ! 
" Sealed no longer death's dark prison — 
Christ, the Conqueror, is risen !" 
Tarry not to place thy finger 
In the wounds where nail-prints linger; 
Leave the linen clothes that bound Him; 
Sing, with Mary, '• I have found Him !" 
Be thy mighty love the token 
That for thee His heart was broken. 
Whom the living Christ hath shriven. 
Knows, e'en here, the peace of Heaven. 
Death in Christ is dawning gladness ; 
Life in Christ is robbed of sadness ; 
Faith in Christ that will not falter 
Crowns with Easter bloom His altar, 
Decks His shrine in sweetness vernal, 
Lives with Christ the life eternal. 
Tells in song and chime and story, 
All a risen Saviour's glory. 



Master Bauutx* 



SESTERDAY, distress and gloom, 
Folding shroud and rock-hewn tomb, 
Where to-day is light and bloom. 

Brooding darkness yesterday, 
On the spot where Jesus lay ; 
Now the stone is rolled away, 

And triumphant voices ring, 
With the hymn the blessed sing, 
Death at last has lost its sting : 

Lost its sting and lost its sway, 
O'er to-day or yesterday. 
Where is now thy victory ? 



Where thy triumph, vaunting grave ? 
Seas of pardon softly lave 
Souls the Master rose to save, 

And the Easter bell's glad strain, 
Is for all who, washed from stain, 
Rise henceforth o'er sin and pain ! 




II 



Master Lilies* 



»0T as we bring our garlands to a tomb, 
To breathe heart- fragrance o'er a lost one's 
rest, 
Bring we this wreath of sweetness and of bloom 
To crown this day, of all our days the best. 

But as if love and gratitude and prayer, 

Lying in grave dark that enwrapped his face. 
Had seen his smile break forth with wondrous 
grace, 

And sudden blossomed into beauty there. 

As if along the way that felt His tread 

Life burst from death and flowers from the sod ; 
So new love springs to meet the heart of God, 

In joyful praise that Christ no more is dead. 



MUv HastBr. 



J5f HE Easter praises may falter 
^^ And die with the Easter Day, 
The blossoms that brightened the altar 

In sweetness may fade away ; 
But, after the silence and fading 

Lingers, untold and unpriced, 
Above all changing and shading, 

The love of the living Christ 

For the living Christ is loving. 

And the loving Christ is alive ! 
His life, hidden in us, is moving 

Us ever to pray and to strive. 
Alas! that e'en in our striving 

We labor like spirits in prison, 
Forgetting that Jesus is living, 

Forgetting the Saviour has risen! 



13 



We join in the Easter rejoicing, 

And echo each gladdening strain, 
While a pitiful minor is voicing 

Our own secret doubting or pain. 
We weave him a shroud of our sadness, 

We cover his smile with our gloom, 
And drive back the angel of gladness 

That waits at the door of the tomb. 

We forget that our own hearts have hidden 

Our Christ in a grave of our own ; 
We forget that our own hands are bidden 

To roll from the threshold the stone. 
Yet our tearful eyes, drooping and weary 

With watching in sorrow and fear, 
Might see, with the heart-broken Mary, 

That the Lord is alive — and is near. 



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